We drank to that.
Then he said, “Now that I’m doing the Lord’s work, I’ve put all those days at places like Leprechaun Village behind me. You understand that. People don’t like to think their favorite preacher spent his younger years popping out of pies at stag dinners or fishing full ashtrays off dinner tables in a Leprechaun suit, so I’ve wiped away those days, golden as they are in my memory and yours.”
“They aren’t particularly golden in mine,” I said.
“Well, I’m not looking down on anything we ever had to do to make a buck in this life, God knows, Sydney, and I want to hear how you’ve been doing, but you have to understand the Lord’s work is big business. I’m talking about dollars, Sydney, big bucks, and you can’t get out on the wider seas of industry in the same old canoes you used for little lakes and streams.”
“Does she love you?” I asked him. “Does she tell you she loves you?”
“Does who tell me she loves me? My fiancée?”
“Little Little La Belle,” I said.
“She hasn’t had the chance to say yes, thank you, praise God, or hallelujah, which is why I’m here and turning down the big bucks at a tent meeting my organization had scheduled in the hills of Tennessee. It’s her birthday tomorrow, and we’ll finalize it all tomorrow.”
Then he hopped off the bed and said on his way to the telephone, “I’ll have one more double order sent up for us, Sydney. I’m not a lush, believe me, but I drove the whole damn day to get here, straight from a taping of The Powerful Hour—I was in the testimony segment, and I’m beat, my boy, and I want nothing more than to sit back and hear about you.”
His four shots combined with mine finally did him in, and near ten-thirty I helped him from the bathroom to the bed. As we waddled across the room together side by side, I saw us in the full-length mirror and thought of the Siamese twins in Vladimir Nabokov’s short story “Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster,” which he’d described as walking like drunken dwarfs supporting each other.
He had passed out cold on the rug before I got him up on the bed, and I put a pillow under his head, admired his soft bright red hair and freckled cherub’s face, and threw a blanket over him.
A motel employee told me Star Wars was coming to an end, which gave me time to slip out into the parking lot and get Little Lion’s note from the blue Volvo.
I was breathless from all this exertion as I posted myself just outside the door of the ballroom.
“How did you get here?” she said when she came out with all the others.
I was still panting like a dog. “I ran all the way.”
16: Little Little La Belle
“LITTLE LITTLE,” MY MOTHER said, “where are you? We’ve been worried out of our minds. Larry, pick up the den phone, it’s Little Little!”
“I’m at The Palace,” I said. “I’m going to see the Midnight Monster Double Header.”
“It’s midnight!” my mother said.
“That’s when it starts,” I said.
“Little Little”—my father’s voice—“where are you?”
“She’s at The Palace Theater,” said my mother.
“It’s midnight!” my father said.
“And I’m eighteen,” I said.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” my mother said, “but you know what we think of The Palace.”
“What are you doing at The Palace Theater?” my father said.
“She says she’s going to see the Midnight Monster Double Header,” said my mother.
“I’ll be home when it’s over,” I said. “I’m all right.”
“Now just a minute,” said my father. “Who are you with?”
“Are there other TADpoles with you?” said my mother.
“I’m with one,” I said.
“Who?” my mother said.
“Who are you there with?” my father said.
“You promised me you’d come right home after Star Wars,” said my mother. “How many movies can you see in one night?”
“Three,” I said.
“Who are you there with?” my father said.
“His name is Sydney Cinnamon.”
“You’re there with a boy?” my father said.
“I don’t know any boy named Sydney Cinnamon,” said my mother.
“Is he a TADpole?” said my father.
“He’s not on our list,” my mother said. “I know every name on that list.”
“Who is he, Little Little?” said my father.
“Is he little?” my mother said. “Is he a diminutive?”
“He’s little,” I said.
“Who is he?” said my father.
The operator broke in at that point and demanded more money for the next three minutes.
“What’s the number there?” my father said.
“The show is going to start any minute, so don’t call me back,” I said. “I just want you to know I’m okay.”
“Where did you meet him? He’s not on our list,” my mother said.
“Little Little,” my father said, “you’re not with The Roach?”
“The Roach?” my mother said.
There was the operator’s click and the dial tone.
I thanked Mr. Gruberg, the manager, for the chair I’d used to make the call. He knew me from all the times Cowboy and I had sneaked to the theater last summer, while my parents went to dances at Cayuta Lake Yacht Club. We only had time to see one feature without their knowing we were there. My parents didn’t object to the movies The Palace showed as much as they feared the rats that were supposed to live in The Palace, and “the element” that went to the late night shows—a lot of kids who smoked pot and made out in the back rows, and some of the town drunks who dropped in to nap.
While Sydney bought us a huge container of popcorn, I lit a cigarette for a few fast puffs before we got inside.
A red-faced fellow with blurry eyes asked me where my mamma was and if she knew I was smoking cigarettes.
“This little pixie is older than you think,” Mr. Gruberg told him.
“Come on,” Sydney said, and we went inside, and all
